


don't cry for me my dearest

by QueenOfHz



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst?, But I had F!byleth in my head while writing, F/F, F/M, Gender-Neutral My Unit | Byleth, Hurt No Comfort, Illness, Sorry Not Sorry, sadfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 22:10:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20443370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfHz/pseuds/QueenOfHz
Summary: For a brief moment you thought things would be all right. How foolish you were.





	don't cry for me my dearest

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a discussion on the Edeleth Discord about how Soon You'll Get Better by Taylor Swift could be an Edeleth song if you hated yourself, as well as the headcanon of El needing a cane in artwork done by @bergamot_teacup on twitter.

You both knew this day was coming.

\--

You didn’t want to admit how scared you were the first time you noticed the stained handkerchief she hastily tried to conceal, tried to keep from you.

She brushed you off when you first asked about it; it was just a side effect of the experiments done to her; it happened every time the weather got colder and would clear up shortly.

But that rattle in her chest you would hear at night never quite went away after that winter. 

She was proud. She resisted the cane at first, despite the healers’ recommendation. It took almost collapsing in front of your friends before she admitted it to herself. You held her all night long, your nightshirt soaked in her tears.

You both hoped things would get better when she was finally able to step down from her position as Emperor; no more sleepless nights reviewing military reports, no more stress-filled days trying to solve the problems that came with re-distributing power across a continent. You both moved to a cottage in the south; the healers said the warm climate would help with the worst of the symptoms.

For a year or two, you could say things didn’t get worse. If asked, you would say those were your happiest months. Still, some days her teacup of bergamot would go unfinished, lest her trembling hand spill it. You pretended not to notice.

You brought healers from all over Fodlan, and even a few beyond. They all reached the same conclusion; the best thing for her health was to rest and not worry about counting time. The experiments had been too invasive; removing the crests would likely cause more trauma to her body than leaving them in. Every time, she took the diagnosis with a calm face, the only hint giving her emotions away was the tightening grip of her hand in yours.

So you put on a brave face for her. You would be her rock, like you always had been.

When the weather was nice, you would both go for long walks on the beach. The sand would make her cane useless, but she took your arm and you let her set the pace. Some days you would have long conversations, but usually you’d just enjoy each other’s company in contented silence.

When you turned around to head back to the cottage, you noticed that the footprints from walks previous would always extend farther on the beach then they did that day. 

On days when she wasn’t up for walking, she would sit and paint while you fished. Although she never was comfortable enough to go in the ocean past her knees, she enjoyed painting it. She told you it reminded her of you. She was too shy to show anybody else her paintings and told you to throw them out when she was done. You kept every single one.

You admired her so much. When your friends visited, she never let on how she hardly had any appetite anymore; how it would tire her to simply walk up the path from the beach to the cottage. 

How she would wake up crying in the middle of the night, not from nightmares anymore, but from pain. By the morning, however, she was back to her regular hair routine. The only remnant of the night before was a slight redness to her eyes. You would hug her for twice as long those mornings.

Dorothea was probably the only one of your friends who could see right through the brave face you put on. On your birthday she surprised you, had conspired with your beloved, to invite all your former students over for a celebration. 

You hadn’t seen your love light up like she did that day in so long. For a brief moment you thought things would be all right. How foolish you were.

At your wife’s insistence, you continued the night at the local tavern. You were hesitant to leave her alone, but ever the stubborn one, she refused to hear any notion of you ending your night early on account of her. She was tired from the festivities; she was tired from most things these days. She would just go to bed early and you would have a night to relax with your friends.

You stumbled home around two in the morning, ready to curl up in a warm bed next to your wife and sleep off the warm buzz from a few too many pints of ale.

But when you entered the kitchen and found the bottle of Almyran whiskey that Ferdinand had gifted you on the floor completely empty, you never sobered up so fast in your entire life.

You found her passed out on the floor in the bathroom, lying in a pool of her own sick. Angry and terrified, you cleaned her up and carried her to your room, trying your hardest to ignore how little she weighed in your arms. You berated yourself for being selfish enough to leave her alone with only her fears to keep her company.

For the first time in a long time you wished you could hear Sothis’ nagging voice in your mind again. Perhaps the goddess would have been able to heal the dying woman when you could not. Dying. Neither of you ever would speak the word aloud but you didn’t need to. You didn’t sleep at all that night.

In the morning, she was sheepish and apologetic; you told her it’s all right, but maybe you wouldn’t keep alcohol in the house anymore.

The days grew shorter as fall approached; it never snowed that far south in the Empire, but even the lightest draft was enough to give her a chill now. She could barely get around anymore; you would brush her silver hair in the morning and carry her downstairs. Often she would spend all day curled up in a blanket in front of the cottage, looking out over the sea. Despite your protests for her health, you could never say no to her. The sea breeze would bring a flush to her cheeks and to you she looked as beautiful as ever. 

That morning you awoke before dawn to a gentle hand caressing your face. She smiled softly when your eyes fluttered open to meet hers; her eyes clear and warm for the first time in months, yet a sadness still reflected in them. 

She whispered to you that she would like to see the sun rise again with you. Would that you still held the goddess’ power to turn back time, that you may live through a century of sunrises with her. 

She kissed your tears away, you hadn’t cried since your father died. She made you promise not to wallow for too long; you wouldn’t want to disappoint her after all.

You asked if she wanted the medication the healers had given her for the pain; she wordlessly refused. 

All she wanted was for you to brew one last pot of bergamot tea.

**Author's Note:**

> find me @Queen_of_Hz on twitter if you want to yell at me.
> 
> Edit: @bergamot_teacup has created some heartbreaking fanart for this, go check it out! --> https://twitter.com/bergamot_teacup/status/1167470799290347520


End file.
